


zero at the bone

by ictus



Series: with a bang, with a whimper [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 03:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Dick has killed thirteen people by the time he calls Jason.





	zero at the bone

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-flashpoint continuity. Draws pretty heavily on Blockbuster's death (relevant pages [here](https://imgur.com/a/569Lxof)). It also touches on the Garzonas arc from Batman #424 plus this excerpt from Nightwing #119: ["I know all about what you did, Dick--the whole Blockbuster thing. I also know that for just a second you saw the _real_ world."](https://i.imgur.com/v08FiYg.png)
> 
> A million thanks to my beta [brodmann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodmann/pseuds/brodmann) who really helped steer this in the right direction.

 

 

If Dick were asked, he would say that he doesn’t remember how it started. He’d say that the first time had been an accident, that it wasn’t a conscious decision.

If Jason were asked, he would say that people can only be stretched so far before they snap.

 

: : :

 

Dick’s patrolling one of his regular routes when he intercepts the police transmission, a call for all nearby units to investigate a domestic dispute on 47th. In these situations mere minutes can be the difference between life and death, and Nightwing’s not about to leave this one in the BPD’s incompetent hands.

The transmission has barely ended by the time he’s fired his grapple, soaring above rooftops and swinging in low arcs between buildings. By the time he arrives the woman’s already in pretty bad shape, bleeding profusely from a cut above her eye while the other’s completely swollen shut, and there’s a dark, hand-shaped bruise across her throat.

The sight ignites a particularly vicious thrill of anger in the pit of Dick’s stomach.

The perp is armed and doesn’t look like he’ll go down without a fight. He’s big: two-twenty pounds of solid muscle, but Dick’s _faster_ , knows exactly where to strike. He channels all of his rage into delivering blow after blow, feeling flesh and cartilage give way beneath his fists, instantly gaining the upper hand.

There’s a moment where the gun’s been knocked on the floor and the perp lunges for it. Dick gets him in a headlock before he can reach it, manages to hold him despite their weight difference. Dick knows half a dozen ways to resolve the situation, can see in his mind’s eye every possible path he can take to ensure threat of the gun is neutralised, and the perp is secured before the police arrive.

But then the woman lets out a small whimper from where she’s huddled in the opposite corner and he hears her body hit the ground as she collapses, and Dick—

Dick thinks of the bruises, thinks of the blood running down her face, thinks of her wide, fearful eyes _(it’s never going to stop)._ Thinks about what she’s already endured at the hands of this man, this monster _(it’s never going to stop)._ Thinks about the fact that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much time he spends patrolling, he’ll never be able to put an end to this, and Dick—

_(it’s never going to stop)_

Dick snaps his neck.

In one strong, brutal movement, he grabs the guy’s face and _twists_. The resultant crack echoes around the room, around the inside of Dick’s skull, and he drops the lifeless body in shock. He stumbles backwards, feeling the world is tilt under his feet. Did he—he _couldn’t_ have, would never—

 

 

The woman is still unconscious in the corner. That fact alone is enough to silence his racing thoughts. Even though he can hear sirens approaching, he takes a moment to check her vitals, assure himself that she’s stable.

He feels for the steady thrum of her pulse, counts it off for a whole minute. Then he takes two steps backwards, and tumbles out the open window.  

 

: : :

 

 _It was an accident_ , he tells himself, feeling the impact of the punching bag against his wrapped knuckles. _An inexcusable, unforgivable, accident._

Dick hadn’t even bothered trying to sleep. He tells himself he won’t be able to, that the guilt would eat away at him like something corrosive and toxic.

He tells himself that’s the only reason.

He should step down. He knows it. He’s wholly undeserving of the emblem on his chest. Nightwing was supposed to be a symbol of hope, a shining light in the darkness, not someone who—someone who—

 _—kills_ , his mind supplies, unbidden. _You killed a man_.

Dick knows what he _should_ do. But to step down and turn himself in would mean tearing down everything he’s ever worked for, would have untold repercussions for the rest of the superhero community. The public already has reservations about vigilante justice, is already trepidatious about the Justice League. This issue is greater than him.

 _No_ , he thinks, aiming a particularly fierce jab at the punching bag, _I need to carry this on my own._

 

: : :

 

It happens again.

Dick’s been investigating a spate of kidnappings—teenagers who have been abducted on their way home from school. And it’s not as if Dick is delusional or naïve. It’s not as if he’s not acutely, _painfully_ aware that in a city like Blüdhaven, these things end badly more often than not. But when he finally tracks down the perp and breaks into the basement where he was holding the victims— _not just victims, they were children, they were kids_ —nothing can prepare him for what he sees.

The stench of blood is what gets him first. The silt of it coating his throat, making him gasp and splutter. The bodies themselves are so far gone they’re beyond recognition, but Dick knows who they were, can still see their smiling faces from the case files he was compiling. He’s gripped by a cold fury that’s disturbingly familiar and devastatingly absolute. He can hear those words echo in his head.

_(it’s never going to stop)_

Dick’s sitting in the kidnapper’s darkened living room when he returns, escrima sticks lying forgotten on the coffee table in front of him. The perp’s eyes widen in terror when he catches sight of him and he raises his hands in surrender, already babbling what sounds like a string of apologies and pleas for mercy.

Dick hears none of it. He vaults over the coffee table and has him pinned on the ground within seconds: one hand holding his wrists over his head, the other in an iron grip around his neck. Dick can feel his throat working erratically through the glove, can feel his whole body twitch with the need for air, but he doesn’t let up.

The man’s final whimpers are drowned out by the rush of blood in his own ears, and Dick doesn’t let go until his eyes have gone glassy and vacant. It’s not until he rises to his feet that he realises he’s trembling, the shock of what he’s done finally setting in.

This wasn’t like last time. This was premeditated, planned. Dick could have called it in, could have handled it in any number of ways. This was a choice.

_(it’s never going to stop)_

He’s almost surprised by how easy it is to walk away. The tension eases from his shoulders as the door clicks closed behind him.

Later that night, sleep comes easy. And he doesn’t dream.

 

: : :

 

Dick’s settling in for a stakeout by the docks when something prickles on the edge of his awareness. He doesn’t see so much as _sense_ the shadows darken, and there’s an atmosphere of unease that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Dick peers through the lenses of his binoculars, not willing to turn around just yet.

“You know, I do have a phone.”

Bruce is silent but Dick waits him out, adjusting his lenses before raising them to his eyes once again. Dick starts silently counting, making it to forty-four before Bruce finally speaks.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

Batman never gives much away, but there’s an edge of concern to the usual stoicism that has Dick’s heart jumping in his throat. But there’s no way, he can’t _know_ —

“Sure, what’s up?” he asks, casually hopping down from the ledge where he was perched.

A pause. “There’s been a series of murders in Blüdhaven over the last two months. Strangulation, blunt force trauma. No evidence of firearms and no DNA left at the scene. We think there’s one person behind this and they’re working alone.”

Dick’s keeps his face impassive behind the domino but he knows that Bruce can glean everything he needs from the set of his shoulders, from the shift in his stance.

“Uh-huh. Things must be pretty quiet in Gotham for you to be concerning yourself with matters here.” It comes off as more defensive than he’d like, but he’s almost grateful to have this old argument to fall back on, to be able to mask his fear with irritation.  

Bruce’s lips thin into a hard line. “It’s concerning when talk of a new vigilante, one who’s not afraid to use lethal force, reaches my ears.”

Dick schools his features into something neutral. “Vigilante?”

“Each murder was committed against the perpetrator of a violent crime: kidnapping, rape, murder. Whoever is behind this is taking the law into their own hands.”

“Do you think it could be—”

“Our intel indicates Red Hood was in Cordoba as recently as yesterday, and surveillance footage puts him in Buenos Aires four days before that.” The corners of his mouth tighten and his voice comes out strained. Despite his best efforts, Bruce has always been agonisingly transparent where Jason’s concerned. “The latest victim was reported on Wednesday, which rules him out.”

Dick swallows around the lump in his throat. “How many victims?”

“Five.”

Dick barely contains his relief. _That means that he still doesn’t know about four of them._

“But there could be more,” he says, as if reading Dick’s thoughts. He extends a hand and Dick takes a small flash drive from him. “Here’s everything we have on them so far.”

“Any eye-witness accounts?” he asks, thinking of the woman from the domestic dispute. Alicia Payne, he’d come to learn. 33 years of age, statistics teacher at the local community college. Dick had tracked her for two weeks following their encounter. He told himself it was to ensure that she was safe, but really—

“None.” Batman may not hesitate, but he does pause for a moment. “Nightwing, is everything okay?”

Dick grips the flash drive so hard he can feel its edges digging into his palm. “Of course, why do you ask?”

Another pause. “It’s not like you to miss something like this.”

There’s an accusation there, and it’s so easy to fall back into old habits, to give into his rising temper. He’s halfway to spitting out a retort—something that will drive Bruce away and widen the distance between them—when Bruce lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. The gesture is uncharacteristically tender coming from Bruce, even more so coming from Batman, and suddenly Dick’s gripped by a rising panic. The Nightwing suit is too tight and Dick feels like he’s suffocating under the pressure of it, pressing in on him from all sides. He can feel the confession rising in his throat, the words already forming on his lips.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and swallows it down.

“I’ll handle it.”

 

: : :

 

Dick’s killed four more men by the time he calls Jason.

Jason spends most of his time living off the grid, doing jobs overseas and avoiding Gotham and Blüdhaven alike. Jason may have been trained by the best but nobody, not even the Red Hood can hide from Oracle.

Jason’s still in Argentina, must be doing a large-scale job given how long he’s spending there. He may be legally dead but even ghosts show up on traffic cams and CCTV, and Oracle’s software makes him all too easy to locate. From there, all Dick needs to do is triangulate the cell phone signal of his latest burner phone.

Before he can reconsider, Dick finds himself patching through a call to a man who’s held a knife to his throat more times than he cares to admit. Dick’s heart is racing as the phone rings two, three, four times before—

“’Lo?” Jason’s voice is rough and gravelly from sleep. Dick holds his breath as the seconds lengthen.

“Hello?” he asks again, his voice now carrying a faintly amused edge. Dick opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

Five thousand miles away, Jason lets out a derisive snort. “Look, if you’re planning on making a hit on me, it’s in your best interests to retain the element of surprise. So calling ahead really isn’t a—”

Dick disconnects the line abruptly and lets out a shaky breath.

If Jason traces the call, he makes no effort to contact Dick again.

 

: : :

 

In the month that follows, Dick puts all thoughts of Bats from his mind. He doesn’t report back to Bruce with a status update, and he postpones his plans with Tim. Jason’s fallen off the grid again, either gone underground or updated his security to the point where even Oracle’s software can’t track him. Dick can’t seem to tamper down on the growing sense of unease that arises each time he tries to locate him but comes up empty.

Instead, he buries himself in his work. He begins patrolling as soon as darkness falls and he doesn’t turn in until the dawn’s first rays glint off the city’s skyscrapers. He keeps himself in check—mostly. He uses excessive force on the perps who really deserve it, but his attacks are always just shy of lethal.

He can control this. He can.

His resolve crumbles when he picks up the case of Jared Hellier. Hellier has fought his way to the top of one of the local gangs with more than a little bloodshed, hellbent on instigating a city-wide gang war and not afraid of catching civilians in the crossfire. Dick fully intends to apprehend him, to take him in and nothing more. But when he finally tracks Hellier to his base of operations, it seems someone has already beaten him to it.

Hellier and his crew had been working out of an abandoned public library east of Melville Park, and Dick’s barely taken two steps into the main foyer before he sees it’s littered with bodies. There’s no sign of a struggle, and every last one of them was taken out by a headshot: a small, perfect circle in the exact centre of their foreheads. 

Dick unholsters his escrima sticks as he ventures deeper into the building, his heart thudding against his ribcage. Whoever did this has been meticulously trained, is clearly more of a threat than Hellier himself.

Judging by the muffled screaming coming from the back of the building, they’re not done with him just yet.

Hellier is a bloody and broken mess by the time Dick finds him. He’s huddled in one of the offices at the back of the building, completely immobilised by his injuries. The assailant is standing over him with a gun pointed directly at his chest, and even though he may be wearing a domino, Dick recognises him immediately.

“You Bats sure have excellent timing.”

Jason lowers his gun but keeps it drawn, his free hand clenched like he’s gearing up for a fight. Dick spares a glance at Hellier who’s on the verge of tears, looking at Dick like he’s some kind of saviour. He pointedly looks away.

“I suppose you’ll wanna take him in,” he says tilting his chin towards Hellier, tone defiant.

He’s still holding the gun. Dick can’t take his eyes off it.

“No.”

Jason tilts his head. “No?”

Dick swallows down the lump in his throat. “Not this time.”

Jason’s confusion is clear even through the domino. Dick feels like he’s on the precipice of something enormous, realises that if he takes this step there’s no going back. He needs to think this through, he needs to be sure, he needs to—

_(it’s never going to stop)_

“Take him out,” he says. Lets some of the aggression come through in his voice. Hellier makes a pathetic noise from the ground but neither of them pay him any attention. “Shoot him.”

Jason still hasn’t moved. “Is this some kind of test?”

“No test,” he says, voice clear and even. “Kill him.”

Jason stares at him while the silence stretches between them, mouth agape as if he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Dick holds his gaze unflinchingly, knowing Jason won’t back down, will take up the gauntlet every time without fail.

He doesn’t disappoint.

Keeping his eyes on Dick, Jason raises his gun and shoots Hellier five times until he collapses, dead. As if on reflex, Jason flicks on the safety and holsters the gun.

Neither of them look at the body. 

Dick holds Jason’s gaze, waiting for the ringing in his hears to dissipate. When he finally speaks, the words come easier than he’d imagined.

“Want to get out of here?”

Jason regards him for a beat too long, and Dick rapidly realises that this could go one of two ways. The panic rises in his throat again, until Jason simply shrugs.

“Sure, I could eat.”

 

: : :

 

Jason suggests a diner on 34th Street.

Dick’s stowed a change of civilian clothes in dozen or so locations around city for occasions just like this, instances where he needs to change quickly and can’t swing by his apartment. He briefly considers the fact that the diner Jason’s suggested is a quarter of a mile away from one such location.

Jason doesn’t change, but he does remove his domino, gloves and holsters. Distantly, Dick realises he can’t remember the last time he saw Jason, realises it’s been longer still since he saw him out of the field. It’s jarring to see Jason like this, to measure the difference between the mask and who he is underneath.

The diner’s mostly empty given the early hour, and it’s easy for them to find a booth out of earshot of the other patrons. When a server comes over to take their orders, Jason’s smile is positively blinding. He orders a couple of items off the menu and chats up the waitress with an effortless charisma, something Dick never would have associated with him.

Dick frowns and wonders exactly what she’s seeing right now, tries to look at him through her eyes. He subtracts everything he already knows about Jason from the man who sits before him.

This is what he sees:

Jason’s young. College-aged. Wouldn’t look out of place on UB’s campus. His hands are rough and scarred which suggests manual labour, but he’s got a mouth full of perfect teeth that say he comes from money. He’s handsome in a way that seems completely unintentional, making him look somehow approachable. There’s a self-confidence in his posture, in the set of his shoulders, and it’s reflected in his carefree smile. He jokes with the waitress in a way that suggests he’s extroverted, amicable.  

He weighs that against what he knows:

Jason is someone who has travelled the globe to train with highly-specialised assassins. He’s someone who could create an explosive device that would be powerful enough to level the whole city, if he were so inclined. He could synthesise a toxin so potent that it would kill Dick before he’d even realise he’d been poisoned. He has the intelligence and strategic acumen to dismantle criminal empires, seize control of entire cities. He has killed hundreds, if not thousands of people.

Jason is dangerous.

Jason is a murderer.

Dick makes a conscious effort to remind himself of this, even as he watches Jason pour an ungodly amount of ketchup on his eggs the very instant his food arrives. Jason’s made a few attempts at small-talk, questions that seem innocent on the surface but contain hidden taunts buried like landmines that Dick studiously avoids. Jason likes to talk and Dick’s more than happy to let him, stuck replaying the night’s events on an endless loop, trying to figure out exactly what he’s going to say to Jason.

“So,” Jason says, ripping apart a piece of toast and shoving it in his mouth.

“So.”

“Long time no see, huh?” Dick’s unmoved by Jason’s effusive grin. Jason can be impulsive but he has patience where it counts. Dick knows he’s waiting him out, that this is nothing more than a game to him.

Dick bites the bullet. “I guess you’re wondering why I called you?”

Jason gasps, eyes gone comically wide. “What? No way, I never woulda—”

“I killed someone,” he says quietly. Jason’s pause is a beat too long.

“Bullshit,” he whispers. There’s something carefully controlled about his features, none of the shock Dick would have predicted. His lips are curving into a smile even as he juts his chin out, challenging Dick to contradict him. “What happened?”

Dick recounts the story of the domestic dispute. Tells him how the guy was going for a gun, that he was worried for the victim, that he didn’t intend to kill him. That it was an accident. Jason’s expression is completely neutral as he talks, but he carries an air of expectation, like he’s still waiting for something else.

“And that was the first time?” he asks once Dick has finished.

A beat. “Yes.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “So nothing like that has ever happened before?”

Dick keeps his face neutral. “No.”

Jason holds his gaze, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Assessing. Dick steadies his breathing. “And since then?”

“I—twelve.”

 _Twelve_ , Jason mouths wordlessly. He slowly looks over each shoulder to ensure they’re still out of earshot, shifting in his seat. When he faces Dick again, he’s showing all of the incredulity Dick had expected form the start.

“I suppose they were accidents too?” Jason’s accompanying grin is sharp. Dick imagines erasing it with his fist. “So why call me?” he asks when it’s clear Dick’s not going to rise to the taunt. He tears off another piece of toast and says with his mouth full, “I mean, did you need some pointers, is that it? Advice on how to break the news to dad? Wanna start a black sheep support group?”

Dick drains the rest of his coffee. Squares his shoulders.

“Actually, I need a gun.”

 

: : :

 

Jason chatters incessantly on the way to his safehouse, rambling on about everything and nothing. Dick feels out of place, off-balance. He doesn’t know where he stands with Jason, unsure what to make of their temporary truce. Jason had accepted Dick’s flimsy excuse without question, completely failing to point out the fact that if Dick wanted a gun, he would have no problem sourcing one himself. Dick feels grateful in a way that makes him uncomfortable, the thought of owing Jason weighing heavily.

“I set up a couple of boltholes in Gotham and Blüdhaven a few years back,” he explains as they climb the fire escape of a nondescript apartment block. The, _back when I rose from the dead and nearly burnt the city to the ground,_ is implied. “They’re mostly weapons caches and a place to crash, but I should be able to hook you up.”

Dick was taken aback when Jason suggested they go back to his safehouse, couldn’t understand why he would show his hand like that. From anyone else, it would seem like an olive branch. From Jason, it probably means he has enough secure locations set up around the city that he can afford to give up this one.

They arrive at one of the uppermost windows and Dick allows Jason a few minutes to disable the security. The sky is just beginning to lighten, and he casts his mind back to the library on the other side of town, thinking that by now it must be swarming with police and crime scene investigators.

“Alright, let’s get you sorted.”

The apartment is more or less as Jason described; there’s a large mattress on the floor of what he supposes was intended to be the living room, and not much else in sight. He follows Jason into the apartment’s only bedroom and is immediately taken aback by what he sees. The walls are covered floor-to-ceiling with weapons: everything from katanas to semi-automatics; from daggers to sniper rifles. It’s overwhelming to see them all on display like this. Jason is clearly operating under the assumption that anyone good enough to get into the apartment is unlikely to be deterred by locked cabinets or a hidden wall.

“Do I wanna know how you got these?” he asks, taking it all in.

“Nope,” he replies simply, rifling through a large chest of drawers. Dick can hear him moving things around, like he’s looking for something in particular. “Here,” he says finally, retrieving a handgun and a box of cartridges.

Dick blanches.

Jason is regarding him keenly, a dangerous smile curling on the corner of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

Dick swallows. “Don’t you have a Glock G22? That’s the pistol I used when I was on the force.”

“Hmmm.” Jason glances briefly over his shoulder. “Nope. But this one’s a semi-automatic too. It’s an Iver Johnson, takes .38 supers.”

Dick takes the gun from him. The chrome feels impossibly cool under his fingertips, the weight of it familiar. He pockets the cartridges.

“Thanks.”

Jason regards him for a long moment, smiling in a way that makes Dick’s skin prickle. The silence stretches for a moment too long, and Dick can’t help but shift under his scrutiny.

“Don’t mention it,” he says finally.

 

: : :

 

Jason stays in Blüdhaven. Dick doesn’t see him of course, but he knows Jason well enough to recognise his work. Pimps and drug dealers turning up dead, beaten crudely before being put down with a final killing shot. A part of him is aware that Jason is taunting him, goading him, trying to see just how serious Dick is about his newfound moral code.

But with Jason dealing his own brand of justice, Dick has no reason to get his hands dirty; the streets are quieter than they’ve been in months with whispers of a new vigilante forcing even the most brazen of criminals underground. As it stands, Dick has little more to do than follow up on missing persons cases: good, honest detective work that keeps his mind off anything Jason might be doing on the streets of his city.

Until one day, it stops.

Dick’s been tracking the BPD’s progress, knows there are half a dozen warrants out for a man matching Jason’s description. Patrolling officers report sightings of him on a near-daily basis until one day, the trail goes cold. The thugs come out. Petty crime is on the rise once more. There’s a power struggle as local gangs fight it out to fill the vacuum that the Red Hood left behind and suddenly, Dick has his hands full trying to keep them all at bay.

Dick manages to track down one of the ringleaders on the tail-end of a particularly gruelling patrol. He recognises him immediately: Anthony Kim, 37 years of age, rap sheet as long as Dick’s arm. Kim puts up a fight but Dick has him pinned, and for a moment he thinks it would be so easy to end it here, to put a stop to this once and for all. He thinks of his gun, half a city away; thinks of how it would feel in his hand. Imagines Kim’s face opened by a bullet’s exit. Imagines shooting Kim in the stomach and watching the life bleed out of him.

_(it’s never g—)_

Instead he knocks him out with a nerve strike and calls it in.

Dick expects to feel relieved, to feel grateful that he hasn’t lost himself to senseless violence. Instead he feels uneasy—uneasy and _foolish_. He can’t shake the feeling that somehow, the shadows are laughing at him.

 

: : :

 

Three days later, Anthony Kim is killed by a fatal gunshot wound to the head while being transferred to a secure facility. BPD reports pin the attack on an unidentified long-range sniper.

Dick scopes out the scene, grapples up to the rooftop where the attacker would have taken his shot.

There’s no trace. But then again, he hadn’t expected one.

 

: : :

 

It’s a recurring pattern.

Every time Dick apprehends the perpetrator of a major crime—someone irredeemable who truly deserves to die—he falters when it comes time to deliver the final blow. And every time he fails they’re found dead within days, the circumstances suspicious.

(Every time, before he calls it in, Dick stands beside his captive, waiting. Every time, he expects Jason to materialise from the shadows, to gun down the perp with ruthless efficiency. And every time, nothing.)

 

: : :

 

Dick’s mulling over police reports when his phone chimes. It’s his WayneTech phone, the one that’s encrypted to hell and back. The one that only a handful of people can reach him on.

_39.284496, -74.566128. 0300. you know what to bring._

Dick’s heart pounds as he reads and rereads the text, adrenaline already spiking. He always knew that Jason would only taunt him for so long, that this sick and twisted game would eventually end with Jason forcing his hand. Dick’s been standing on the precipice of something vast and terrifying for months now, can feel the weight of it all bearing down on him as if his entire world has narrowed to this moment. There’s a sense of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, so strong it’s dizzying.

Dick tracks the coordinates, finding they lead to an impound lot on the outskirts of Avalon Heights. It’s jarring to be setting out without his Nightwing uniform, feeling strangely vulnerable without the domino. He’s all too conscious of the weight of his gun in his jacket pocket, feeling it brush against his waist with every movement.

Rain is falling in heavy sheets by the time he arrives, chilling him to the bone and making his teeth chatter. The facility has been locked for the evening but Dick scales the chain-link fence with ease and sets off in the direction of the administrative building at the back of the lot, a sense of foreboding growing as he makes his way down the aisles of cars.

He spots Jason by the glow of his cigarette as he lights up, leaning against the wall of the building. He’s dressed in civvies, and for a moment Dick’s reminded of the man from the diner. But then Dick spots the hilt of a dagger peeking out from one his jacket pockets, can see the other is weighed down by what’s probably a handgun, and reminds himself for the umpteenth time who he’s dealing with. 

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says, blowing a plume of smoke into the frigid October air.

“No, I don’t suppose you would have.” Jason’s gaze is calculating but Dick refuses to falter under his scrutiny. “Strange place for a rendezvous.”

“Mmm, convenient though,” he says with a sidelong glance. Dick’s about to question him when he tosses his cigarette and gestures for Dick to follow him. “C’mon, I got you a present.”

Jason pushes open the door ( _broken handle; forced entry,_ he notes distantly) and leads him down a corridor to an office. In the centre of the room, a man is bound to an office chair. There’s a hood over his head that obscures his face, but Dick’s heart stutters as he recognises the man regardless.

“What are you waiting for?” Jason asks impatiently. “Open it.”

Dick steps forward, trying not to let his hesitation show. He cautiously removes the hood from the captive’s head. The man’s mouth is taped, but that doesn’t stop his muffled whimpers, sounding like a wounded animal that’s caught in a trap. While he can’t communicate verbally, his eyes are wide and desperate, a silent plea for mercy.

Dick already knows there will be none of that tonight.

“Dick.” Dick can’t help but flinch at the sound of his name in the field, at the fact that Jason’s making this one _personal_. “Do you know who this man is?”

He’s pacing in a slow circle around the room, but Dick can’t take his eyes off the perp, is transfixed by the other man’s terror.

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Who is he?”

“Michal Alders.”

Alders lets out what might be a sob at the sound of his name, but they both ignore him.

“Correct,” he says, continuing to pace. “And do you happen to know why Mr Alders is here with us tonight?”

“Yes,” he says coldly. He takes a moment to close his eyes, lets the images from his case files drift to the forefront of his mind. He thinks of the twelve bloated corpses that were pulled out of the Lanely River over the course of three months. Thinks of the necklace of bruises each of them bore, how starkly they stood out against the silver slab of the mortician’s table.

Finally, he finds his voice. “He’s a murderer.”

“That’s right. Wanna know how I found Mr Alders?”

“Tell me,” he says, the fury ringing out clearly now. Alders has started openly sobbing. Dick watches on with a sick satisfaction.  

Michal Alders has evaded both Nightwing and the authorities for the better part of a year. Surveillance footage from near the dump site pinned the crime on a man with Alders’ description, but there had been no record of Alders himself ever residing in Blüdhaven, nor were there any records of him living anywhere else within the last five years. Dick had almost given it up as a cold case.

“Turns out our friend here has been living in Port’s Park under an alias. Even got himself a clean, honest job working here at the impound lot, some sort of cushy admin gig. But the problem with our friend here, is that he has—”

“Tattoos,” says Dick suddenly. Most of Alders’ neck is covered in dark ink that spirals down his chest, distinctive patterns that match the man from the surveillance tapes. Dick had recognised them immediately.

“That’s right. At first he was covering them up,” he says, pausing to stare down in Alders at disgust. “But I guess he let his guard down.”

Without warning, Jason hits Alders with a roundhouse kick. The impact makes a sickening sound as Jason connects with his nose, breaking it. Alders, still bound to the chair, is knocked to the ground. He lets out an anguished cry, struggling to breathe with his mouth taped shut and blood flowing freely from his nose.

Jason sets Alders upright again then circles back around so he’s standing next to Dick, both of them regarding Alders with open revulsion. “So what do you think, hm? You think our friend here deserves to live?”

Dick doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Shall I let you do the—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, already drawing the gun.

The moment his fingers grip the cold metal, he’s struck by déjà vu. _Catalina’s smoking gun. The air thick with the smell of blood. Those last words replaying in his head, over and over and—_

“Dick?”

“Yeah,” he says. Snaps himself out of it.

He adjusts his stance and grips the gun with both hands, raising it level with Alders’ chest. There’s a fine tremor in his hands that wasn’t there when he used to practice in the BPD’s firing range, his breath coming so hard his entire body shakes with it.

Dick lowers the gun, struggling to control his breathing. He starts when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“You got this.” Suddenly Jason is pressed up against him, his feet bracketing Dick’s and his own body pressed along the line of his back. Dick can feel the heat of him against his rain-chilled skin. He relaxes minutely.

“That’s the way.” Jason’s voice is softer than Dick’s ever heard it, his lips brushing the shell of his ear as his hands find their way to his waist. They linger there for a moment before drifting down to his hips. Jason makes slight adjustments to his stance, squaring his hips and nudging his right foot forward so his weight’s more evenly distributed.

“That’s better,” he says, removing his hands from his hips and running them down his arms. “Try again.” He allows Jason to guide his arms up to the appropriate height. Satisfied, Jason runs his hands down the rest of the way until they cover Dick’s, steadying his grip on the gun. Jason is tall and broad enough that he can envelop Dick completely, making him conscious of every inch where their bodies are pressed together.

The tremor, he notes, has left his hands.

Dick fits his finger over the trigger and closes his eyes, willing himself to sync his shallow breathing with Jason’s slow, steady breaths. Alders has been mostly quiet for the last few minutes, but he suddenly starts making urgent, desperate sounds.

Dick ignores him.

He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on the gun. Hears the words echo in his head, knowing them to be true.

It’s never going to stop.

He pulls the trigger one, two, three times, hitting Alders in the centre of his chest with perfect precision. Dick has only a split second to be overwhelmed by the explosive sound of the gun before his knees are giving out, Jason’s strong arm around his chest the only thing keeping him upright. He’s distantly aware that the gun is being taken out of his hands, and he’s being dragged out of the office, away from the body— _body, dead body, I shot someone, I killed—_

“Shhhh, I got you.” He can barely hear the words over the ringing in his ears, the reverberation of the gunshots drowning out everything else. “It’s okay, you did the right thing, you did good.”

There’s a solid wall of heat pressed against his back which means Jason is still holding him close. A cool flat surface under his legs which means they’ve collapsed onto the floor. A hand pushes his wet hair off his forehead. The ringing in his ears fades into something distant and far-off, and he becomes more aware of Jason’s voice, a lifeline tethering him to something solid and immutable.

“That’s it,” he says as Dick begins to regain control of his breathing, feeling some of his light-headedness dissipate.

“Back with me?” he asks, his broad hand now rubbing soothing circles over Dick’s thigh.

Dick’s lips form Jason’s name. He says it over and over, choking on the sound.

“I got you,” he says again as Dick shudders against him.

The shock of what he did is setting in, the gunshots still echoing. Jason’s presence is the only thing grounding him, and he suddenly needs to be closer. He twists clumsily in Jason’s lap until Jason picks up on what he’s trying to do, rearranging their bodies so they fit together with Dick straddling one his thighs. Dick fists his hands in Jason’s jacket and buries his face in the crook of his neck, Jason’s hand jumping to the nape of his neck as if on reflex.

“Jason, please.” Dick’s panting open-mouthed against his throat as he claws against Jason’s jacket, desperately seeking out more contact.

“It’s okay, m’here,” he says. He rucks up Dick’s rain-soaked jacket and gets his hands under his shirt, the searing heat of them making Dick gasp. Suddenly Jason’s hands are all over him, running over the muscles of his back, skimming his ribs, tracing his waist. Dick’s mind spins with the sensation, overwhelmed but still wanting more, not willing to let go of him just yet. 

They stay locked together until Dick’s breathing slows, his senses coming back online one by one. Jason just holds him through it, telling Dick everything he needs to hear. _You did the right thing, he was a killer, he would have killed again, he deserved to die._

Eventually, Dick extracts himself from Jason’s grasp, stumbles to his feet without any of his usual grace. When he chances a sidelong look at Jason, his expression is indecipherable. It’s not compassion, not exactly. More like understanding. For the first time, Dick wonders what Jason’s first kill was like, how he felt the first time he fired the shot that ended someone’s life.

“We, uh. We should probably get going.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, trying to collect his thoughts. “I just have to do something first.”

Dick makes for the office, hesitating for only a moment as he crosses the threshold. Alders is slumped in the office chair, his bindings the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes are hooded and vacant, his face covered in blood. There are three entry wounds clustered over his heart. Dick can hear the steady drip as blood runs down the back of the chair to puddle on the floor.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, committing every last detail to memory. He hears Jason approach the doorway behind him, feels the weight of his gaze.

After a great length, he opens his eyes again.

“Alright, let’s go.”

 

: : :

They don’t talk on the way back.

Dick follows Jason to his bike and climbs on behind him without comment. He hesitates for the briefest of moments before wrapping his arms around Jason’s waist, holding on tightly so they’re pressed together. The rain is unrelenting, soaking them both within minutes, and it’s easy for him to let his mind drift as Jason guides them through Blüdhaven’s empty streets.

It takes him some time to realise they’re not heading back to Jason’s safehouse.

Jason slows the engine to a dull purr as they approach Dick’s apartment block, parking just off the street. Dick is frozen in place, not wanting Jason to leave but unable to ask him to stay. But then Jason’s switching off the engine and climbing off the bike, and Dick is wordlessly following his lead again.

A distant part of him—the same clinical part of his mind that catalogues his injuries—is aware he’s probably still in shock. He never thought he’d find Jason’s presence to be a comfort, a reassurance. But here he is following Jason into the lobby, impossibly grateful for the fact.

When they reach his apartment, Jason enters ahead of him with all the confidence of someone who knows his way around. He casually sheds his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair before helping himself to orange juice from the fridge.

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” Dick says but it comes out hollow, all mirth gone from his voice.

Jason, who is drinking directly from the carton, shoots him a wink. Somehow, the small gesture makes something ease in Dick’s chest.

“You know, that’s probably expired by now.”

Jason chokes, holding the carton away in revulsion. He checks the date and lets out a muttered _asshole_ once he realises he’s been had, then downs the rest just to spite him.

This is familiar territory for them. This isn’t Jason from the impound lot, who held him as he shuddered and shook. This isn’t the Jason who rose from the Lazarus pit, who tore apart a city in search of vengeance. This is Jason as Dick remembers him. This is the bratty kid that Bruce pulled off the streets, the kid who scowled when Dick ruffled his hair, but looked at him with awe and hero-worship the second Dick looked away.

Dick reminds himself that they’re—paradoxically—one and the same.

“You look beat.”

Dick starts. “I—yeah, you’re right.” He sheds his wet jacket, stripping down to his undershirt. Seconds later he’s collapsing onto the couch, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he’s overcome by a wave of fatigue. He hears Jason settle into the armchair opposite him.

“One of us should call it in,” he mutters, still not opening his eyes.

Jason shifts in his chair, makes a questioning sound.

“You know, the—” _homicide_ , he means to say, but the word is stuck in his throat. He cracks his eyes open and Jason looks like he understands. He lets them fall shut again, struggling to find the words. “I just don’t… I don’t want anyone else to find—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, softer than Dick was expecting.

Dick nods. Swallows. Listens to the blood rush through him. He can feel sleep tugging at the edge of his consciousness, but there’s been something on his mind, something from the impound lot that he can’t seem to let go of. He’s trying to figure out the best way to ask when the words fall from his mouth without warning, clumsy and ineloquent.

“When was your first—”

Dick’s eyes fly open, startled by the sound of his own voice. Jason is impassive. He tries again. “How old were you the first time you—”

“Fifteen,” he says, his voice carefully even.

Dick’s heart skips a beat. “You were Robin.”

“Yes.” The silence is heavy as his words sink in. He doesn’t make Dick prompt him before continuing.

“We were investigating a series of assaults. Same perp every time, kept getting off on diplomatic immunity. And there was this one woman, Gloria,” Jason’s voice cracks when he says her name. He fiddles with a loose thread on the upholstery, takes a deep breath. “By the time we got there we were too late, but we’d promised her— _I_ had promised her—that we’d put him behind bars, that she’d be safe.”

“He walked, of course. Money and the right connections will get you anything, especially in Gotham. When Gloria found out…” He runs a hand over his face. “She knew he was coming for her. So she took her own life.”

The words sound impossibly pained as they pass his lips. Dick’s reminded that Jason bears his failures as heavily as any of them, perhaps even more so. “He’d already raped her twice. And she wasn’t his first victim. My whole life, I knew that the system doesn’t work, that the good guys don’t always win. That’s something Bruce never understood. And I realised sometimes you need to do something terrible to prevent terrible things from happening.”

“So you went after him?”

He nods. “I went to his apartment. Cornered him on his balcony, twenty storeys up. Bruce was too late, arrived just after he fell. I told Bruce he slipped, that it was an accident. But…” Jason trails off, a bitter smile twisting on his lips. “Well, he didn’t believe me. And truthfully, I never expected him to.”

“I had no idea,” says Dick quietly.

“Yeah, well. Bruce isn’t exactly forthcoming even at the best of times. Especially not when it comes to his personal failures,” he says with a sardonic laugh.

“He doesn’t think of you as a failure,” he says quickly.

A flash of pain crosses Jason’s features. His face immediately hardens as he grits his teeth against it, his eyes growing cold. “What about you? When was your first kill?”

Dick inhales sharply, imperceptibly. But Jason’s been trained in detecting the imperceptible, his lip curling at the sound. Dick knows Jason’s goading him, trying to even the score. He’s not about to give in so easily. “I already told you about the domestic dispute,” he says as blandly as possible.

“C’mon, Dick. I don’t know why you’re lying to me now, even after everything.”

“I don’t know why you’re playing dumb when you already know.”

“Maybe I wanted to hear it from you.”

“Or maybe you just like to watch me squirm. That’s why you gave me the gun, isn’t it? The .38?” Dick still remembers the thrill of dread when Jason had held out the Iver Johnson, the same make and model as Catalina’s. The same one she’d used to kill—

“I don’t suppose you believe in coincidence?”

“Detectives aren’t allowed to,” he murmurs, shocking a laugh out of Jason. No doubt this was a component of the Robin training that had been drilled into him, time and time again. Dick is helpless to stop a wry smile tugging at his own lips. Some of the tension diffuses between them and Dick finds himself sighing, drawing a weary hand over his face. “So you hacked my mission reports. I take it that’s how you knew about Alders?”

Jason shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself to project true nonchalance. “Next time you should have Babs encrypt them for you. Maybe it’ll take me more than five minutes.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “And when you broke into my apartment, did you just take what you needed and clear out? Or did you bug the place too?”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was coming from a place of concern?”

“No,” he says bluntly.

Jason laughs again. “Well, you’re not wrong. Not entirely.” The mirth fades from his eyes. For the first time, he looks concerned, uncertain. “I heard about Blockbuster. About your breakdown. And when you called me… I needed to know what I was walking into.” Jason shifts forward in his chair, fixes Dick with a piercing look. “I actually still don’t know, not exactly.”

_(Do you like being alone, Dick?)_

Dick shifts minutely. Jason catches his tell. “You’ve read the mission report. You know what happened.”

_(I’ll take out the people you care about)_

“I’ve read the version you wanted Bruce to read. Blockbuster killed a civilian, then he attacked you. Tarantula arrived on the scene. You intervened but couldn’t stop her from killing him. But here’s the kicker: things like this happen in the field all the time. Some casualties are unavoidable. You can’t save everyone, Dick. That’s something we’ve all had to learn the hard way.”

_(I’ll make sure you can’t save any of them)_

“So I can’t help but wonder what this is really about. Did you _let_ her kill him, Dick? Is that what happened? Did you stand aside and watch her pull the trigger?”

_(I can keep this up forever)_

Dick shudders and buries his head in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice doesn’t sound like his own. “He knew who I was. He wasn’t targeting Nightwing, he was after Dick Grayson. He said—” a sob rises in Dick’s throat and he swallows it down. “He was going to kill them, Jason. Everyone I knew, everyone I cared about. Even strangers I met on the street. And he kept saying, ‘it’s never going to stop,’ and I just kept hearing it over and over in my head.” There’s a pronounced tremble in his voice and he takes a few steadying breaths, trying to control it.

“I’ve played it over in my head so many times, and there’s a part of me that’s convinced that I told Catalina to back down, that I screamed _stop_ at the last second. But the other part of me…” He bites his lip, not able to meet Jason’s eyes. “I kept having these dreams. Kept hearing Blockbuster’s voice in my head, ‘it’s never going to stop, it’s never going to stop.’ And then one night when I was patrolling—”

“You realised he was right?”

Dick frowns. “I— No. The first time was an accident.”

Jason lets out a huff and sits back in his chair. “Okay, sure. But how long until it stopped being an accident?”

Dick thinks of the kidnapping case all those months ago. Thinks of how easy it would have been to call it in. Thinks of how he sat and waited for the kidnapper to return, one clear intent in mind.

The realisation must be written all over his face, because Jason’s smile is all too knowing. “You see? Look, here’s what I think. I think you’ve spent your whole life playing by Bruce’s rules, and for a while, that was fine. But in that moment, you caught a glimpse into real world. And it’s been haunting you, hasn’t it?”

Dick can’t bring himself to nod. Jason takes his silence as affirmation.

“Well, take it from me. It gets easier to deal with once you stop fighting it.”

Dick tears his eyes away from Jason, chews on his lip as the words sink in. The sky outside is just starting to lighten, the storm finally passing. Already he can hear the rumble of the early-morning commuters from the street outside, the city coming to life around them. He thinks of the people who live in this city. Thinks of how far he would go to protect them.

“Dick,” he says softly. He waits until Dick reluctantly meets his eyes. Jason’s face is as open and earnest as Dick’s ever seen it. Suddenly, years of animosity fall away, all the mind games and manipulation, all of it fades until it’s just the two of them. Dick’s always thought of Jason as guarded, closed-off. Yet now that the walls between them have come down, it’s Dick who feels vulnerable and exposed.

“Dick, why did you call me?”

Dick’s heart lodges in his throat. What can he even say to that? That he wanted to reach out to Jason, to the one person he could be sure would understand him? Or that he needed to measure the distance between them, to assure himself that he wasn’t too far gone? Both answers hold some measure of truth; truths that Dick has been hiding from himself, truths he can’t bear to admit to Jason.

Jason’s eyes grow expectant as the silence lengthens. Dick feels as if he owes Jason this, owes him something of an explanation. But in spite of everything they’ve been through tonight, everything Dick’s already told him, this is the one question he can’t bring himself to answer. His feelings towards Jason are still in a state of flux, and he’s still so far from being able to pin down the nature of their relationship, to definitively categorise him as friend or foe.

Somewhere above them, a door slams. It’s enough to remind Dick of the early hour, to make him realise the night’s work is not yet done.

“I’m gonna call it in,” he says suddenly.

If Jason’s disappointed that Dick’s evaded his question, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, a small smile curls on his lips, the same knowing smile Dick’s beginning to associate with him. The one that makes him feel like Jason sees straight through him.

“Sure,” he says lightly.

Dick grabs his phone and heads to the bedroom, grateful for a moment alone to process his thoughts. He takes a few, steadying breaths before he dials, thankful for the fact that Jason’s out of earshot and doesn’t hear the tremble in his voice.

He stares at his phone’s blank display long after the call’s ended, hearing Jason’s words echo around his head.

_It gets easier to deal with once you stop fighting it._

 

 

Jason’s gone by the time he returns, the open window leaving little mystery to how he disappeared. His jacket’s also gone from the back of the chair, and it’s almost hard to believe he was here at all. But the Iver Johnson is sitting on the coffee table, glinting in the early morning sun. Dick’s eyes wander to the armchair, something there catching his eye.

There are ten digits etched into the battered wood of the armrest, as if carved by a knife. Dick runs his thumb over them, feels for their raised edges. Commits them to memory.

 

: : :

 

Dick spends the next three weeks investigating a serial arsonist. In the short time she’s been active, she’s torched four government buildings and racked up a body count that’s well into the hundreds. When Dick tracks her to a warehouse on the outskirts of town, he sends Jason a text with a time and set of coordinates.

Jason greets him with a smile on his lips and a dagger in his hands, his eyes alight with anticipation.

The Iver Johnson feels familiar and comfortable in his hands. This time when Dick pulls the trigger, he doesn’t tremble.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


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